


Day One

by morifantra (martainducreff)



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: Depictions of Illness, HIV therapy, HIV/AIDS, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3475016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martainducreff/pseuds/morifantra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.” - Franz Kafka</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day One

**Author's Note:**

> My research on hypersensitivity/HIV treatment was notoriously feeble so this story may not be entirely medically accurate and while it has some semblance of truth, most of it has been invented for the purposes of this fanfic.  
> Any similarities with real persons and/or events are completely accidental.

The new prescription is in their bathroom cabinet. It’s an elongated box, marked with the days of the week, bearing small colourful tablets in each compartment. Every Sunday, these need to be carefully counted, measured and split between the small compartments. Jonathan’s name is on it, branded in Doctor Thompson's generous cursive. Gethin stares at it for at a bit before he pulls his toothbrush out and closes the cabinet.

It’s half six and it’s a Monday morning. Gethin brushes his teeth and shaves. He’s not in a rush. The bleak dawn of morning, when the shop is closed and Jonathan’s breathing is still quiet and even, is more or less the only time Gethin ever gets to himself. He dries his face with a towel and pads out of the adjoined bathroom. Jonathan is still buried in the covers, a cocoon of blankets on their bed, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing. He’s snoring slightly. Gethin casts a look at the clock before he goes off to the kitchen.

In a few more minutes, the sweet scent of coffee reaches him and his cold hands wrap around a big warm mug. It’s so big Jonathan calls it ‘the bucket’ but a bucket is also the approximate amount of coffee Gethin needs when he wakes up. He rolls the sleeves of the jumper he’s wearing up above his elbows. It’s Jonathan’s jumper and it goes down below his hips. Gethin likes it – it’s warm and baggy and it smells nice and he likes having it on these mornings, when he’s all on his own but then again not really.

He’s moving like a spectre around the house, the lights are off, and the sky is only just getting lighter. Gethin’s footsteps are quieter than a mouse’s. Not quiet enough, though, as the moment he walks into the kitchen, Oscar raises his head, his big eyes shining in the near darkness. Gethin smiles as he walks over to sit on the window sill, pulling his legs up. A moment later, he ends up with a lap full of cat.

“Good morning,” he murmurs quietly as Oscar is trying to climb his thighs and get to his knees. “Soon enough you’ll be too big to do that, you know.”

Oscar doesn’t seem to know or care, as he finds his spot on Gethin’s lap and curls there. Gethin runs his hand over his back ones and then moves to scratch behind his ears. Oscar purrs and leans his head into Gethin’s touch. His furry warmth feels calming on Gethin’s naked legs but it still doesn’t get to his freezing toes.

Outside, the sky is turning pink, as if someone has spilled watercolours on paper. Gethin sips his coffee and leans against the window frame. The street below is quiet and asleep and dark, just like their flat. He wonders how many people are sleeping now, like Jonathan, warm and cuddled into blankets, wary of getting up, their eyes heavy with sleep, their limbs cracking and tensing as they groan and scratch their bellies and stretch. And then, he wonders how many people are like him – wide-awake for one reason or another, drinking coffee, wearing their lovers’ clothes, feeling the cold in their toes and reveling into the warmth of the mug in their hands.

The pink stripe spreads and widens across the grey sky, as Gethin drinks his coffee and strokes Oscar’s head.

Soon enough there’s a rustle in the bedroom. Jonathan’s up. Gethin thinks how familiar they are with each other at this point if he can clearly see everything that Jonathan’s doing. Sitting up in bed, stretching, yawning, feeling sleepily for Gethin next to him, scratching the back of his neck and his belly, getting up, going to the loo, washing his face, pulling his robe on. Every step and breath he takes, Gethin can see, without even having to look.

Jonathan emerges from their room, all wild hair and bright, sleep-addled eyes. He goes straight to where Gethin is sitting, his step wobbly and heavy with fatigue still. As if sleepwalking, Jonathan comes to his side and slides an arm around his waist. Gethin turns his head away from the window and smiles.

“Hello.”

Jonathan gives an unidentified groan and puts his other hand on Gethin’s naked knee. Oscar, unsettled by Jonathan’s arrival and the movement, slips down from Gethin’s lap. Jonathan presses closer to Gethin and Gethin leans into the half embrace, as Jonathan’s finger strokes the pale skin of his knee.

They don’t speak. Jonathan leans in to kiss Gethin’s temple, his lips slow and lazy and then he kisses along Gethin’s cheek, then behind his ear, and his cheek again. Warmth overflows Gethin’s skin and he turns his head so that he can capture his boyfriend’s lips in a long, gentle kiss. It’s a lazy snog, and they’re just tasting and feeling each other’s mouths. Jonathan’s lips taste of mint.

Behind them, the sun is rising over London.

It’s day one.

* * *

It takes Gethin until day six to realise what’s happening. He hates himself for it for a very long time after that.

He makes sure Jonathan takes his pills. He knows how much he protested initially and how Gethin stood for it, firmly this time. He’d done his research, he told Jonathan everything he knew, told him of Steve from the support group, who’d been a skeleton just the week before and when he’d walked in exactly eight and a half days later, Gethin hadn’t recognised him. He told Jonathan of the new medical research by this French company and, yes, of course, AZT was bad and it was murdering everybody, and everybody knew this now, but _this one_ , what if this one was the one.

“They used to say AZT was the one too, and look at how many people it’s killed.” Jonathan’s voice tried to sound angry and irritated but it was erring on the edge of worried and Gethin knew he was on the right track.

“People change, Jonathan. Science moves forward. HIV research is extremely progressive. They find new things every day.”

“Geth –“

“I’ve spoken to Doctor Thompson and he reckons we should try it.”

This was the trump card. With the mention of Doctor Thompson’s name, the man who had brought Jonathan back from when they thought they were saying goodbye, Jonathan looked down and his shoulders slumped.

He’s still wary and afraid, Gethin knows. He knows Jonathan’s body language better than anyone. But he still doesn’t see, no, he sees, it just takes him too long to notice.

Side effects are inevitable. Gethin’s woken up to Jonathan being sick in the loo once this week, and he thinks there’s been more times that he hasn’t been told about. However, on the outside, Jonathan seems okay. Exhausted and irritable, but okay, and if that’s what he gets, Gethin will take it.

He is uncharacteristically twitchy and antsy. At night, he wiggles constantly, as if some animal is biting at him, he barely ever manages to stay in Gethin’s embrace more than a minute before he rolls out of it. It’s as if he can’t find a comfortable position to sleep in and more often than not, Gethin finds himself in bed alone, as Jonathan migrates to the sofa. After a while, he comes back, and keeps rolling around.

It’s strange, Gethin admits that, however he silently signs insomnia as one of the side effects of the therapy and doesn’t say anything. He knows that if he shows the slightest sign of how worried he is, Jonathan will get upset and guilty. So he doesn’t. He keeps quiet as Jonathan keeps moving, he brings him water, and falls into small bouts of nervous sleep, awake and listening to his boyfriend’s haggard, uneasy breathing.

Despite the restless sleeping, everything else seems marginally okay. Gethin believes that it is, that it is okay.

Until one particularly strenuous day, just as they’re closing the shop, Jonathan collapses.

It happens so quickly that Gethin doesn’t have the time to panic. His brain flares up, surely, but he’s immediately at Jonathan’s side, the thump of the broom handle echoing through the empty shop. He can see him breathing, thank God, and he’s conscious, but when he reaches his hand to touch him –

“Don’t!” Jonathan nearly shouts and Gethin pulls his hand back as if burnt. “Don’t touch me, for God’s sake, it _hurts_.”

Gethin nearly recoils and takes a step back as Jonathan is still squirming on the floor, his face red, his entire body tense and his breathing haggard. It’s as if he’s trying not to scream out and Gethin doesn’t know what to do, for a blinding, terrifying moment he just stands there, helpless and lost. Then he lands back with a crash and squats down next to Jonathan, keeping his voice steady and even.

“Jonathan. It’s okay. It’s okay, baby. Tell me what you’re feeling, what hurts, where?”

Jonathan is rolling over as if trying to get up and the expression of pain seems permanently etched on his face. His eyes are swimming and Gethin doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so terrified.

“Everything,” he croaks out. “Everything, I –“ He clenches his eyes shut. “My clothes on my skin and – and when you touch me, it’s horrendous, even when I’ve got the duvet on me at night, I thought it would go away, but it doesn’t, Geth, it doesn’t, and –“ the tears are dripping through his clenched eyes and he’s shaking. Gethin’s mind snaps to work.

“We need to get you up to the flat,” he says quietly, making sure Jonathan can hear him. He pauses for a bit. “Can you stand up?”

After what seems like a moment of consideration, Jonathan shakes his head, a small, broken sob escaping him. “Oh God, Geth, I –“

“No,” Gethin interrupts. “No, don’t panic. We’ll get you up but I’ll have to hold you, okay?” He swallows, remembering the terrified look on Jonathan’s face when he’d tried to touch him. No. He’ll think about it later. Right now, everything is about getting Jonathan off the floor. “Jonathan. Okay?”

Jonathan knows it’s going to hurt; Gethin can almost hear him thinking it. His eyes still closed, he nods.

“Okay then. I’ll be careful, alright?”

After another curt nod, Gethin thinks of the quickest way to do this. He settles for sliding his arms under Jonathan’s armpits and hoisting him up on his feet, as he counts to three out loud. Jonathan’s face tightens the minute Gethin touches him and Gethin realises that he must be careful and sparing with his touches.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, as he wraps his arm around Jonathan’s waist to keep him up. Jonathan’s breathing is tortured and it hitches but he holds on to Gethin as tightly as he can. His face is contorted in pain as they go up the stairs and Gethin keeps saying he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, _just a little more left, darling_. The bell on the shop door ringing as it closes behind them.

* * *

Gethin doesn’t hear that bell for the next five days. He doesn’t go down to the shop; every waking moment he can spare is spent by Jonathan’s side.

Not that he can help much. He reads until his throat feels sore, and he plays Jonathan’s favourite records, he airs the room regularly, and he brings Jonathan food. His boyfriend can’t stand to have any clothes on his body and to keep him from getting sick Gethin has a thin sheet thrown over him and the heating upped to a maximum. He spends all the money he doesn’t have on keeping the flat as warm as a sauna.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters if Jonathan doesn’t get better.

His boyfriend refuses to go to hospital and Gethin doesn’t force him. He knows better than anyone else that no one in the world can make Jonathan Blake do a single thing he doesn’t want to do. If he leaves him in the hospital, Jonathan will surely break out of there on the first night.

Still, his own mind is racing, pulsing with worry, and between feeding and bathing, helping Jonathan to the loo, keeping him entertained, all without touching him, riles Gethin up horribly until he’s twitchy and nervous and hasn’t slept for three nights in a row.

When Jonathan goes to sleep, Gethin stays by his side and listens to him breathing, fitful and wheezing. One afternoon he calls doctor Thompson and tells him what’s going on. He finds it hard to explain exactly what Jonathan’s going through but the doctor seems to understand from the half-sentence that Gethin musters through his pinhole-tight throat.

“It’s a common enough side effect with any HIV medication,” the doctor explains. He’s calm and goes right to the point, without over-simplifying and sugar-coating. That was why both Gethin and Jonathan like him. “Hypersensitivity. The immune system fights the drug because it doesn’t realise it’s not an intruder. It’s something like an allergic reaction – only in Jonathan’s case, it’s very severe because his immune system is already stressed and confused and considers everything in his body to be a threat.”

Gethin’s knees feel weak. “But he’ll get better. Won’t he?”

A beat of silence. “We’ve got him on a cocktail of medicine, Gethin. You can try stopping them individually to see which one’s causing it, but that can make things a lot worse.”

Gethin grips the phone. He knows that it’ll make things worse, he doesn’t need to be told that. They’ve had a lot of unfortunate experiences from experimenting with Jonathan's prescriptions. Never again.

“But it might wear off on its own? Can’t it?”

“If his immune system slowly starts recovering, it might. I’ll do some research for you, try to find an alternative. I’ll call if I come up with something.”

Gethin hangs up and straightens himself. He allows himself to be cautiously optimistic and leaves the bedroom door slightly ajar in case the phone rings again. Jonathan’s thrown the blanket off himself and he’s curled on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest.

Gethin sits next to him and watches his sleeping face, his brow creased, his mouth slightly open, his nostrils flaring with every uneasy breath.

His hand ghosts over his arm and he pretends he’s stroking Jonathan’s warm skin as he moves his fingers over thin air.

* * *

Jonathan doesn’t get better and the phone doesn’t ring.

Gethin keeps doing what he’s been doing. It’s not helping Jonathan but it’s not making him any worse either. The shop has now been closed for a week and their friends are beginning to catch on. Gethin’s avoided making any phone calls or talking to anyone but when the knocking comes on their door he can’t say he hasn’t been expecting it.

Steph and Joe are the first ones to come. They probably figured that it was something about Jonathan but they look terrified when they see the look on Gethin’s face. Gethin himself feels like he’s aged ten years in the last week, so he understands.

They ask to see Jonathan the moment they go into the flat. The bedroom door is firmly closed and Gethin politely but firmly tells them it’s not convenient at the moment. Even if his boyfriend is hardly ever aware of his surroundings these days, he still wants to keep some of Jonathan’s dignity intact. Steph and Joe regard him as their father. Jonathan wouldn’t want them to see him like that.

Instead, Gethin makes them tea and sits them down. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s happy they’re here to distract him. To be someone else to talk to.

Steph promises they’ll look after the shop. Gethin tries to protest but he’s outvoted and he gives them the spare keys, saying that he will go down and check on them and they should call if they need something. They nod and if anything they seem a little excited.

“Gethin!” Jonathan’s voice breaks the quiet murmur of their voices.

Gethin stands up.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“Gethin –“ Steph tries and she looks terrified. Jonathan’s never shouted, not in their presence. “Can we –“

“No,” Gethin says, already on the doorstep of their bedroom. “No you can’t, I’m sorry.” He disappears inside.

Jonathan says that his head is killing him and he’s tried getting up but he couldn’t. He looks horribly angry and upset with himself. Gethin says that it’s okay and goes to get him a paracetamol.

“Who’s here?” he asks when Gethin comes back.

“It’s Joe and Steph. They came to see how we are.”

Jonathan nods and struggles to sit up. He takes the two pills in one go.

“Tell them I say hi, will you?” With that, he lies back down and turns on his side to go to sleep again.

The fact that he doesn't even try to insist to see them scares Gethin more than anything.

When he goes back into the kitchen, Joe’s got Oscar on his lap and is petting him gently. Oscar looks happy to be receiving attention – he’s been banished in the living room since the very touch of his furry tail to Jonathan’s skin makes Jonathan wince in pain. However, Oscar’s a cat and he doesn’t understand that he suddenly can’t cuddle with the man who cuddles him every day. Gethin is mindful of spending at least fifteen minutes of scratching behind his ears and petting him when giving him food but even Oscar looks unhappy as if misery is a cloud that’s hanging over their house and is affecting even the bloody cat.

“Jonathan says hi,” Gethin says as he takes his seat on the table again. “He’s gone back to sleep now, but I’ve told him you two came to visit. He looked very touched.”

Joe nods and looks at the closed bedroom door, his eyes filled with trepidation. He keeps moving his hand over Oscar’s back almost mechanically.

Steph, on the other hand, keeps looking at Gethin. She reaches over and takes his hand.

“Anything you need, you call us. Alright? You don’t have to do this alone.”

Gethin looks at them both. They’re children – even if they’re nearing their mid-20s, they’ll always be children to him. He’d rather die before put anything of what he’s going through on their shoulders as well. He hopes they never know what it feels like.

“Of course. Of course I will.”

* * *

Two days later Jonathan spikes a fever.

Gethin is restless, he’s caught in a vicious, endless cycle of putting wet flannels on Jonathan’s forehead through clenched apologies in his throat, running him cool baths when he sweats it off, changing and washing the sheets. Again, and again, and again.

Jonathan sleeps and in his feverish dreams he keeps mumbling Gethin’s name. The lack of physical comfort is affecting them both and sometimes Gethin goes to the bathroom, buries his face in a towel and he screams and sobs and cries. He feels broken and desperate but he can never show weakness. Not in front of Jonathan.

He goes on grocery runs as much as he can manage. Oscar needs food and the world hasn’t stopped, much to Gethin’s dismay. There’s some money coming from the shop that Steph brings up every other day. Without them, Gethin doesn’t know how they would have survived. Their savings are running dry day by day and Jonathan wouldn’t be happy about that at all.

One day on his way back from the grocery, Gethin drops by the bookshop. He stops by the backroom because he hears Reggie’s voice. His heart clenches painfully.

“What I’m saying is,” Reggie’s voice comes through. “We might need to just get some money together, you know, for the –“ he struggles.

“Funeral,” Ray adds, sounding morose.

“Because Gethin certainly won’t be able to cover all that himself, considering he doesn’t have the shop open these days and anyone’s barely in. Maybe the people in Dulais can pitch in and –“

“Shut up, Ray.”

“Mike, I’m just saying –“

“Shut. Up.”

Ray turns around and it’s only then when he sees Gethin standing at the beaded curtain. He walks through it, holding the paper bag with the groceries in it, his hands remarkably steady even if it feels like his insides are lurching painfully. His eyes don’t leave Reggie’s face.

“Thank you for your concern,” he says, his voice shaking. “But we don’t want any money from you. Either of you.”

Reggie opens his mouth to speak but closes it again, his eyes still widened in something akin to terror. Gethin realizes how he must look, how tired, how his eyes are probably bulging out from all the weight he’s lost.

Gethin nods and turns on his heel to go upstairs.

“By the way,” he says, his voice steady and quiet. “I’d really appreciate it if you all stopped talking about my boyfriend as if he’s a fucking corpse.”

The silence that follows him out of the room is deafening.

* * *

It’s not just them. Everyone who calls, everyone who visits, everyone is already treating Gethin like a grieving widower. Perhaps the fact that they don’t see Jonathan, who hasn’t left the bedroom in more than a week now is making it harder for them to remember that he’s still actually there. Gethin doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that Jonathan’s not complaining to be in bed all the time. He looks too tired to do anything, even speak.

Gethin talks to him about everything and nothing, he doesn’t stop talking to him. About every single thing that's happening, he reads papers he's never read before, he reads books, he listens to Jonathan's music, or sometimes he just tells Jonathan about Wales, about the places Gethin's going to take him when he's better and when they find themselves into a bit of money. Sometimes, Jonathan even replies.

One evening, just as Gethin has brought him some dinner in bed, Jonathan starts crying.

“What?” Gethin asks, alarmed. He immediately pulls the plates away. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, what is it?”

Jonathan’s lost weight. As much as Gethin is trying to keep him well-fed and hydrated he has – the small pudge of a belly that he’s always had is now gone without a trace, as is the gentle fullness of his face.

“Please, Jonathan, tell me what’s wrong.”

Jonathan looks at him and whispers: “Please hold me.”

“What?”

“Gethin,” Jonathan’s chest is heaving. “I’m not dying without getting the chance to kiss you again.”

Gethin feels his heart drop into his heels.

“You’re not going to die.”

“Gethin –“

“No. No, you’re not. You’re not going to die.”

Maybe if he says it enough times, to everyone, then it’ll be true. He can't believe that he now has to say it to Jonathan, too.

Jonathan just keeps looking at Gethin. His eyes are rimmed with red. There are new wrinkles around them, ones Gethin knows for certain weren’t there before. His hair is wild and for the first time since Gethin’s known him, Jonathan actually looks ill.

Gethin sits up next to him and runs a gentle finger down his naked shoulder.

As if that’s been his cue, Jonathan crashes into his embrace. His body is unnaturally warm yet he’s soft, he’s solid and he’s still so him. Gethin shakily puts his arms around him and he feels that his breath is hitching and that his body is incredibly tense. This is madness, he thinks, he couldn’t even hold my hand for weeks and now this.

But Jonathan doesn’t seem to notice. He’s kissing every part of Gethin he can reach until he gets to his lips. For a moment, a blissful, forever-lasting second, Gethin forgets. When Jonathan’s warm mouth is on his, the world dulls to a quiet hum and nothing else exists.

Jonathan kisses him with abandon and passion, peppering Gethin’s mouth and face with gentle kisses. Gethin lifts his hands off Jonathan’s skin carefully as Jonathan keeps holding his face and kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. For the first time since the whole thing started, Gethin feels like everything’s truly lost.

“You’re not going to die,” he repeats as Jonathan brings their foreheads together and says nothing, body tense with pain.

* * *

A phone call, a fifteen-minute cab ride to the hospital and back, a new prescription box. Day one again.

Gethin throws the old boxes in the trash without looking at them at all. Then he braces himself on the sink, suddenly feeling his knees weak.

Oscar paws into the bathroom and walks in an eight-shape around Gethin’s feet, meowing, _pay attention to me_. Gethin picks him up and lets him balance on his shoulder, just like he does on Jonathan’s. He walks into the bedroom.

Jonathan’s fever is down, has been down for the last few days but he’s still moving, still can’t stand the touch of anything to his oversensitive skin. He looks up at Gethin and smiles when he sees Oscar on his shoulder. Gethin gathers the cat in his arms and sits by the bed. Oscar, of course, immediately starts squiggling, trying to get to Jonathan, to cuddle into him. Gethin keeps his hold gentle but firm.

“I figured that you missed him.”

Jonathan is smiling as he runs the tips of his fingertips over the sharp ends of Oscar’s ears, and the fuzz of fur on his head. Oscar tries to push into the touch but Jonathan takes his hand away before he does.

“I hope he doesn’t hate me,” Jonathan says quietly. It’s kind of funny how they’ve non-ironically now started considering Oscar to be like their child.

“He doesn't, of course not,” Gethin strokes Oscar’s head and back to calm him down and stop him from digging his claws into his knee. “You’ll see. You’ll hold him again very soon.”

Jonathan snorts.

“Before you say anything, I want you to listen to me.” Jonathan’s mouth snaps shut. “Doctor Thompson gave me a new prescription. A new medicine. He said that it’ll stop the hypersensitivity while still keeping you stable and helping your immune system.”

“For God’s sake, Gethin, I told you no more meds.”

“Then why didn’t you stop these even with the side effects?” There’s no answer and Gethin sucks in a breath. “Because they helped, Jonathan. You felt it yourself that they helped, even if the cost of that was too –“ He exhales and goes to drop Oscar outside and closes the door. “If we get you off everything it’ll be too dangerous and you know it. You can’t keep running on dry, you just can’t. Just try this, won’t you?”

“How many more things will I try, Gethin?”  Jonathan’s voice is high-pitched and desparate. “Hm? How much more shit am I going to put in my body when I’m clearly living on borrowed time already? It’s been ten years, Gethin, ten years of life with a disease with a life expectancy of two, at the most.” He pants, his hand clutching the bed sheet. “Look at the others, look at Mark, how can you say that I –“

“Don’t,” Gethin says furiously. They’ve had this conversation before and now is not the time for it. “Don’t go there. Just don’t.”

Jonathan falls silent and then his head falls back on the pillow and he sighs.

* * *

Just when Gethin’s about to lose all hope, because it’s been days and days and days, the miracle happens. Jonathan actually starts getting better.

He’s still thin and weak but the twitching recedes in the first six days, until it completely disappears when the week-and-a-half mark hits and Gethin feels as if they’ve come alive again, as if they’ve remembered how to breathe. The moment they realise it, Jonathan immediately envelops Gethin in his arms, presses him close, and Gethin covers every single part he can reach with small, gentle kisses. The muscles don’t tense anymore, the skin doesn’t redden.

Gethin doesn’t think he’s realized just how important skin is before.

They stay in bed all day, as Jonathan falls to and out of sleep, wrapped up tightly in Gethin’s arms.

* * *

Early next day Jonathan gets up and puts airy, loose clothes on. With Gethin’s help, gets to the living room before he collapses on the sofa, breathing heavily. The blinds are up and the sky outside is still grey.

Jonathan looks immensely happy to finally be out of the room that he’s barely left in the last two weeks.

Gethin makes him a big mug of tea and sits down next to him, as Jonathan pulls him in a close embrace. He takes the mug and Gethin uses the occasion to lay his head on his boyfriend’s chest and feel his strong heartbeat thrumming. He pulls his legs up and carefully settles them over Jonathan’s, so that he’s completely cuddled in his boyfriend’s embrace.

Oscar immediately appears as if out of nowhere and pushes into Jonathan’s thigh, cuddling into him, making small, happy purrs. He settles his body against Jonathan and his flopping tail drapes over Gethin’s bare feet. Jonathan puts the tea on the nearest table and strokes Oscar’s fur.

It's another bad turn. Another hard patch. Another -- what? Gethin's running out of creative names to call all the times in which he's been scared to death that his boyfriend might not live to see the day. But they're through another one. And they're okay.

Are they? Maybe not. Gethin knows they’re not quite there yet. Perhaps they never will be truly and completely okay. This was one scare. Maybe next month, there will be another. And another. But as he slides his arm around Jonathan’s thin too thin, _I’ll make him some salted chicken tonight, his favourite_ , waist and feels a kiss being pressed into his hair, Gethin focuses on the steady rhythm banging under his ear and knows, he just _knows_ that they’ll be alive to be together for a long, long time. He lets out a long, heavy breath that has been weighing on his chest ever since that dreadful morning when Jonathan fainted in the bookshop.

“Everything okay?” he hears Jonathan ask. His hand moves to Gethin’s knee and the familiarity of it makes Gethin smile against Jonathan’s chest.

“Yes. We’re okay.”

It’s day one of the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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